


Of Grief and Love

by xxSparksxx



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon - Book, Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Off-screen death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25284163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: Five people who see Demelza’s immediate reaction to the news of Jeremy’s death, and one person who doesn’t.
Comments: 35
Kudos: 46





	Of Grief and Love

**Author's Note:**

> Note: book canon. Set in 'The Twisted Sword'. Therefore it contains _book spoilers_ and book characters. 
> 
> Beta-read by the lovely Lucretiassister. All remaining errors are my own :D

_i._ Mrs Kemp

It was the sound of crockery smashing that drew Mrs Kemp’s attention.

She had been helping Mrs Gimlett in the kitchen, with a sharp eye on young Henry as he helped knead bread dough. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, part of her role here to help in the kitchen, but with only little Henry to see to – and he much less rambunctious, so far, than his sister Isabella-Rose, who had been sent to school despite her protests – she didn’t mind turning her attention to other domestic tasks. She was a firm believer in the tenet that idle hands made the Devil’s work. Henry was happy enough playing with dough and flour, cheerfully making such a mess of himself that he was going to need an extra wash today, and Mrs Gimlett was glad of the extra help. The mistress – Lady Poldark, as she now was – wasn’t quite as attentive as normal, at present. Not that Mrs Kemp blamed her, and nor did anyone else. What with Sir Ross held captive in some horrid French place, it was a wonder Mrs Poldark was managing as well as she was. If it had been _her_ husband held prisoner, Mrs Kemp was sure she would have been a nervous wreck. But it was a fact that things weren’t running as smoothly as normal, and Mrs Kemp was perfectly happy to help, on the understanding that Henry came first.

The sound of china smashing onto something disturbed the cheerful harmony of the kitchen. Mrs Kemp looked up from her work and met Mrs Gimlett’s eyes. The sound had come from the parlour, where Mrs Poldark had retreated with a cup of tea to read a letter that had arrived by courier, the address written in Captain Poldark’s familiar hand. There had been no communication from him since that first letter, received by Mrs Poldark while she was still in London, and the whole household feared bad news.

“I’ll go,” offered Mrs Gimlett. But Mrs Kemp, who had been with Mrs Poldark through that terrible, terrifying flight from Paris, shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I will. No, Henry, stay here. Mind Mrs Gimlett.” She brushed her hands dry on her apron, took the apron off, and ventured towards the parlour.

Mrs Poldark was sitting in her favourite chair by the fireside, letter on one hand, the other still held up as if to hold her cup. But the tea cup itself was on the floor in pieces, and the tea pooling about Mrs Poldark’s feet, soaking into her slippers. Mrs Kemp opened her mouth to exclaim, but checked herself. She needn’t ask if the letter contained bad news; she had never seen Mrs Poldark look so ill, not in all the years she had been employed here. Years and years, since Mrs Poldark had been a young bride learning to play the spinet and coaxing Mrs Kemp into teaching her how to dance. She had known Mrs Poldark in poverty and plenty, in grief and in laughter, but she had never seen her look so…

So bereft.

“Ma’am,” she said at last, very quietly. “Ma’am, what has happened?” Mrs Poldark lifted her eyes from her letter, but her gaze was blank, unseeing. Mrs Kemp, anxiety rising, took a step towards her. Demelza Poldark sat like a stone, reacting not at all. It was unnatural, and distressing to see, even for someone like Mrs Kemp, who prided herself on her composure. “Ma’am, your tea,” she prompted. “You broke your cup. Your slippers – may I help you?”

Mrs Poldark blinked, and looked down at her feet. “Oh,” she murmured. “Oh, yes…oh yes…” She moved her foot a little, pointlessly, almost treading the tea into the rug. Her breath caught in her throat, like a choked sob, but her eyes were dry. She looked…brittle, almost. As if she had suffered a grievous blow, and another would shatter her.

Mrs Kemp didn’t dare ask what news the letter had brought, though her mind was turning over the possibilities. The letter had been addressed by Captain Poldark, so the worst could not have happened – Captain Poldark could not be _dead_. But the French were a treacherous lot, as they’d shown, and perhaps they had hurt him. Perhaps, in the aftermath of Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, they had taken some revenge upon him, as a convenient English scapegoat. But she couldn’t ask, not with Mrs Poldark looking as she was. Her first priority had to be helping the other woman, not prying at news that Mrs Poldark might not be willing or able to share just yet.

“Ma’am, let me help you,” she pressed. “Please, ma’am.”

Mrs Poldark’s empty hand went to her mouth, as if she felt nauseous. “I can’t,” she said, “I can’t – can’t breathe –,” She began to rise but then, quite unexpectedly, fainted dead away.

Mrs Kemp wasted a heartbeat or two in her surprise, but then called for Mrs Gimlett and hurried to Mrs Poldark’s side. She patted Mrs Poldark’s face and hands, and felt how clammy she was, but gained no response. Mrs Gimlett came in, trailed by young Henry, who took one look at his mama and burst into tears.

“Now, no need to take on so,” Mrs Gimlett said, appraising the situation at a glance. She too was shocked, Mrs Kemp could see, but they were both of them women accustomed to meeting what came to them with equanimity – both longstanding servants of this house and dedicated, each of them, to Mrs Poldark in particular. “Run ee back to the kitchen, Master Harry, and bring Betsy for me, please.”

“I can’t wake her,” Mrs Kemp said to Mrs Gimlett, once Henry was out of the room. “We’ve no smelling salts in the house, have we?” None of the Poldark ladies was prone to faintness, Mrs Poldark least of all.

“Not so I know,” Mrs Gimlett confirmed. “Do ee know what’s happened?”

”No.” The letter had fluttered to the ground when Mrs Poldark had fainted, and now, hesitantly, Mrs Kemp reached down to retrieve it. Then, for the first and only time in her life, Henrietta Kemp read, uninvited, another person’s letter.

_Demelza, I have to tell you that Jeremy is dead._

“God in Heaven,” she whispered. The letter shook; her hand was trembling. “Dear Lord, no.” Not that little boy, that sweet child that she’d helped to look after since he was only a small lad. Not the young soldier she’d last seen in Brussels, with his charming young wife and a baby on the way. Not _Jeremy_.

Footsteps in the hall, and then Betsy Maria Martin appeared, eyes comically wide at the sight of her mistress unconscious in her chair. Henry was right behind her, his face damp with tears. Normally Mrs Kemp would have soothed his upset, but just at present there were other things to manage. Mrs Poldark was still in a dead faint, and Jeremy…

Jeremy was dead. Her heart ached for him, and for Mrs Poldark, and for Sir Ross.

“Betsy, send Mathew Mark for Doctor Enys,” Mrs Gimlett was instructing the younger maid. “Tell ‘im the mistress is took ill. An’ hurry about it – tell ‘im to saddle a horse, ‘e won’t get there fast enough walking.”

“Mama,” Henry wailed. “Mama!”

“It’s Master Jeremy,” Mrs Kemp managed to say to Mrs Gimlett in an undertone. “He’s – he’s – ,” She couldn’t say the words, but Mrs Gimlett grasped her meaning, and for a moment looked as grey and haggard as Mrs Kemp felt herself to be.

“Lord have mercy,” she whispered. “We all hoped…” Mrs Kemp nodded. They had all hoped that the dreadful battle had spared Jeremy Poldark. Ever since news of it had reached the newspapers, they had all prayed that young Ensign Poldark had come through unscathed. So very young, and so very untried in battle, it had seemed impossible that he could even be involved. And yet here was the letter, written by Captain Poldark to his wife, the words stark against the paper.

Henry was trying to climb onto Mrs Poldark’s lap. Mrs Kemp tried to gather her wits together, and pulled him from his mother, who thankfully began to stir, perhaps wakened by her son’s tears. But when at last Mrs Poldark’s eyes opened, they were clear for only a moment before her own tears began to flow.

“Oh,” she wept, “oh, Jeremy, Jeremy.” Her tears turned into sobs, great heaving things that wracked Mrs Poldark’s whole body. It was terrible, terrible to see. The swell of grief rose and rose, with no end in sight. Young Henry, so unaccustomed to his mother’s tears, began to wail as well. The two sounds tore at Mrs Kemp’s heart, but she knew which was her duty to soothe at present. Without his mother’s attention, Henry would need some comfort from elsewhere, and she would provide it, no matter how sore she felt over the news. Mrs Gimlett could tend to Mrs Poldark; she must tend to Henry.

“Come, Master Harry,” she said to the child, “your mama is…just a little unwell. No need to take on so. Come, we’ll dry your eyes and wash your face.” Against his loud protestations, and despite his age and weight, she bent and picked him up, settling him on her hip as if he was still a babe in arms. Mrs Poldark seemed not to notice Henry’s distress. She was lost in her own anguish, poor woman, and seemed to be on the verge of becoming hysterical – not a word Mrs Kemp would _ever_ normally use in relation to her mistress. But this was not a normal day.

“I’ll stay ‘til doctor gets here,” Mrs Gimlett assured her. “Go on, take Master Harry out, he don’t need to see this.”

So Mrs Kemp bore Henry away, wriggling and crying in her arms, while the sound of Mrs Poldark’s grief echoed in her ears.

* * *

_ii._ Dwight

“Demelza, ill?” Caroline said, lifting her eyebrows in cool surprise. “Surely not. I’ve never known her suffer a day’s illness in her life, saving before little Henry arrived, of course.”

Dwight, who had nursed Demelza through an illness other than childbirth, could still not find grounds for disagreement. Apart from the megrims that came with her monthly cycle, and which she managed herself with the aid of a little Peruvian bark, Demelza Poldark was among the healthiest women of his acquaintance. But the servants at Nampara weren’t fools. Mrs Gimlett wouldn’t have sent for Dwight if there wasn’t real cause for concern.

Bone, who was still in the room with them, waiting for his dismissal, cleared his throat and offered: “Young Mathew Mark come by horseback, sur.” Another servant might not have been so forward, but Bone had been with Dwight from the very beginning of his life in Cornwall, and he knew when to speak up and when to be silent. This was information that Dwight was glad to have, though it alarmed him. Four miles lay between Nampara and Killewarren; normally any of the servants going between the houses would walk.

There was no question about whether he would go, of course. His medical bag was always packed and ready, and the only delay would be in saddling a horse. Then again, if Mathew Mark Martin had come by horseback, that would save Dwight a few minutes – minutes he somehow felt needed to be saved. Demelza ill; it was so unheard of that he felt the urgency of the situation.

“I’ll ride his horse over to Nampara,” he decided. “Give Mathew Mark a drink of something, Bone, and have my horse saddled – he can ride back on her, and we’ll swap at Nampara.”

Caroline was watching him alertly, clearly comprehending his haste, but she didn’t comment on it. “Send word if you’ll be late for supper,” was all she said as she turned her attention back to her book. Dwight wasn’t deceived. He knew she was as worried as he was, but it wasn’t her way to show it. And besides, there might be nothing to be worried about. Perhaps Demelza had had a simple accident, a bad burn, perhaps, or a broken bone. Something that needed attention but would be easy enough to set right.

He wasn’t a natural horseman, never had been, but his practice was a rural one, so of necessity he was competent. There was no reason to gallop to Nampara, but a canter closed the distance a little faster than a walk, and the horse knew the way well. John Gimlett came out to meet him and take the horse’s reins, and the old servant’s relief at seeing Dwight was palpable.

“They’re in the parlour, sur,” he said as Dwight dismounted. “Mrs Gimlett’s with the mistress.”

“Thank you, Gimlett. Has Mrs Poldark injured herself?”

“No-o, not…not that…” He was uncomfortable speaking behind Demelza’s back, Dwight saw, and he wouldn’t push the issue. Another moment would bring him into the parlour, and then he would see for himself. But Gimlett still seemed to have something to say, so Dwight risked the delay and waited. “’Tis – ‘tis Master Jeremy,” Gimlett said at last. “A letter come from Captain Poldark. Seems ‘e was in that battle, that Waterloo. Master Jeremy was, that is.”

A coldness began to creep down Dwight’s spine. He stared at Gimlett, who stared back. And then, just faintly, Dwight heard a cry, a choked off wail that was soon muffled again. Gimlett was a solid, sensible man, but he flinched at the sound of it, and that told Dwight all he needed to know. He took off his hat and gloves, blindly gave them to Gimlett, and then went into the house in search of his friend – his patient.

He found her where Gimlett had said she would be, in the parlour, pacing back and forth before the fireplace, tears streaming down her face, hands twisting together. Her face was pale except for her eyes, which were red and puffy from crying. Mrs Gimlett seemed to be trying to urge her to sit; Demelza seemed hardly to hear her. She certainly didn’t see Dwight, not until he stepped in front of her and clasped her hands in his. Only then did she focus on him, though she said nothing, made not a sound except for another choking sob.

“My dear,” he said gently to her, “come and sit down.” She shook her head, but he didn’t accept that; he drew her towards a chair and gently pushed her into it. She let him move her as if she was a doll, a marionette no longer in command of her own movements. It disturbed him to see it, and he exchanged a glance with Mrs Gimlett, who spread her hands apart in a helpless gesture. “Demelza, my dear,” he said, adjusting his grip on her hand so he could feel the pulse at her wrist, “try to breathe slowly for me. Follow my lead – in…and out…” It was hard to tell whether she wasn’t speaking because she was in a state of shock or because of her irregular breathing, interrupted by those dreadful sobs. She was on the verge of hysteria – or was recovering _from_ a hysteria, induced by the grievous blow she had suffered – and it was crucial now to try to ease the wretched cries that shook her whole body and made her hiccough and choke on air. For a moment he wasn’t sure she would be able to manage it, but after a few minutes she did make some effort to slow her breathing. “Good,” he praised. Her pulse was fast, but steady. “Well done. In…out…”

Mrs Gimlett produced a handkerchief from somewhere. Dwight took it but didn’t give it to Demelza, fairly sure that she didn’t care that her cheeks were damp and her eyelashes so wet they stuck together.

“Has she drunk anything?” he asked Mrs Gimlett in a low aside. “Brandy, port?”

“No, sur,” she said promptly. “I did try, sur, but she wouldn’t take it. An’ she fainted, sur – ‘bout an hour since, when we sent for ee. Came round quick enough, though.”

“Alright.” Dwight squeezed Demelza’s hands. “I’m going to insist that you drink a little brandy,” he said gently to her. “Just a little. With a powder in it. Will you do that for me?”

“Jeremy,” she whispered. “My boy…”

Dwight had to swallow hard. He was not here as a friend, he reminded himself. At present, he was her doctor. Her grief was paramount; his own could wait. Later, at home, he could allow himself to feel it. He would allow himself to think of that day, over twenty years ago, when he had helped Jeremy Poldark into the world. He would think of the delicate boy, the sturdy youth, the clever young man. Later, with Caroline, he would let himself be filled with sorrow for his godson. Right now, he must be the physician.

It had been hard before, at times – detaching himself personally from the situations he found himself in as a doctor. Over the years it had grown easier as his experience grew. But rarely had it been so hard as he found it now.

“I know, my dear,” he said. He had to clear his throat. “I know. It is a – a terrible, terrible blow.” She closed her eyes, swaying in her seat a little, and he released her hands so he could open his bag and find the powder he sought. A sedative would do nothing to take the pain away, but it would numb it for a time, while he rallied her family around to support her.

Mrs Gimlett obligingly passed him a glass of brandy, and he emptied the little paper sachet of powder into it and stirred until it was all dissolved. If Demelza had any opinion about his actions, she gave no sign of it. Tears were still falling down her cheeks, steady but quiet. They splashed onto her hands and her lap. Her eyes were blank again – looking beyond Dwight, beyond Nampara, at something only she could see.

“Here, my dear,” he said to her. “Drink this, now, and then Mrs Gimlett will help you upstairs to bed. You’ve had a shock, and you must rest.”

“My son is dead,” she said dully. Dwight controlled his flinch, but barely. “He is dead,” she repeated. “How can I rest? He is _gone_.”

“Drink this,” was all Dwight could say. “Drink it all up. I cannot promise anything will be better when you wake, but you _must_ rest now.” She shook her head and closed her eyes, but he wouldn’t let her spurn his help. He clasped her hands around the glass and helped her to bring it to her lips. After a moment, reluctantly, she began to drink. When the glass was empty, he took it away from her and passed her Mrs Gimlett’s handkerchief. Absently she dabbed at her eyes and her cheeks, but then her grip slackened and the square of fabric fell, unheeded, to the floor beside her.

“Nothing will ever be better again,” she said into the silence of the parlour. “I wish I was dead too.”

Dwight didn’t respond at once. He took the time to look her over closely, cataloguing every aspect of her countenance so that he could weigh her words properly. She looked so ill, so very fragile, like a hollowed-out version of herself. He could not begin to imagine the grief she felt. Of course she had lost a child before, as he had, but a babe in arms was different, _must_ be different to a child one had watched grow into manhood. He could comprehend the difference. But it was not a genuine wish that she expressed, he judged. It was the awful, empty desolation of loss that made her say so. There was no need to keep a close watch on her; she would take no action. She would remember the other ties of her heart once this dreadful first day was over. In the meanwhile, nothing he could offer her would do half so well as simple patience and understanding.

“Let Mrs Gimlett take you upstairs,” he instructed again. “Lie down in your bed and rest. I will stay here until you wake.” He would stay here and work, he thought grimly to himself. He must send for Clowance, and possibly also for Verity – Demelza would need her family around her and with no Ross here to write letters and send servants, Dwight must do so on his behalf. And Caroline – a note must be sent to Caroline, to warn her not to expect him back before supper, and possibly not even then. He would not leave until others were here to tend to Demelza. He could not.

And once she knew the cause, Caroline would understand his tardiness. She would share his grief and, in her arms, he could lean on her strength and let himself feel all of his pain and loss and regret at the death of his godson.

* * *

_iii._ Clowance

“It’s Cuby’s fault!” Clowance burst out.

The words had been welling up in her for hours, a building pressure in her heart that had at last, just a few miles from Nampara, found release. The ride from Penryn to the north coast had been quiet, neither she nor her aunt Verity much inclined to discuss the reason for their journey, but Clowance could be silent no longer. Even as Verity threw her a surprised glance, Clowance had to continue.

“She rejected him – broke his heart – drove him to the army,” she said incoherently. “She was meant to marry Valentine, did you know? George Warleggan _bought_ her for him – and she agreed – and so Jeremy enlisted – and now he is _dead_ , and it’s her fault!”

Verity looked at her for a few moments more – long enough that Clowance began, belatedly, to feel a little ashamed of her outburst. Then Verity turned her attention back onto the road, guiding her horse with gentle hands as they reached Bargus crossroads and turned onto the track that led to the village of Sawle and, beyond, to Nampara. But though she was no longer looking at Clowance, her words offered a fiercer rebuke than any disapproving expression could.

“You must not think like that, Clowance,” she said. “You must never allow such bitterness to reign in your thoughts and feelings. No, let me finish.” This, when Clowance tried to protest. “If you cannot help but think it, then at the very least you must never, ever speak of it to your mother.”

There was nothing Clowance could say to that. Because of course Verity was right; she could never talk to her mother about this feeling, this anger and resentment that felt every bit as great as the grief she felt for her brother. To do so, in the face of her mother’s sorrow, would be the height of selfishness.

But she couldn’t deny that almost from the minute of hearing of Jeremy’s death – the news brought by Mathew Mark Martin, with a letter written to her by Dwight requesting that she come to Nampara at once, and bring her aunt with her – almost from the very first minute, her thoughts had flown, bitterly, to Cuby. It was Cuby who had driven Jeremy into the army, Cuby who had denied Jeremy because he was not rich enough, Cuby who had indirectly led Jeremy straight to his death. It was her fault. He had been killed by the French, but he would never have joined the army if not for her. Her sensitive, cheerful older brother was dead in a foreign land, far away from where he ought to be, because one selfish girl had ruined him.

It wasn’t fair to think that, not really. It was bitterness, as Verity said. Jeremy had been a free and independent man, after all, capable of making his own decisions. He would not have purchased a commission if he hadn’t truly wanted it, however he might have been driven to it by his feelings for Cuby. But he was dead. Her brother was _dead_ , and she would never see him again, and it was all so incomprehensible. She wanted to weep. She wanted to cry like a child and protest against the unfairness of it all, and above all she wanted to believe this was all some twisted nightmare that she could wake from.

“Promise me, Clowance,” Verity said, checking her horse when it tried to speed into a trot. “Promise me you’ll keep such thoughts away from your mother. Talk to me this way if you must, but not to her. I can’t imagine how –,” Her voice caught, and she had to clear her throat before continuing. “I can’t imagine how she must be feeling. She will need all our love and support, not – not anything else.”

“I promise,” Clowance said, almost too low for Verity to hear. But her aunt _did_ hear, and nodded her satisfaction. It was a promise she would hold Clowance to, no doubt, but Clowance vowed to herself that she would not need any reminder from Verity to hold her tongue. After all, she knew that her mother had not taken the news well; she had Dwight’s letter as proof of that. For him to have written, not Demelza herself, boded ill. She and Verity had agreed on that, when Clowance had stood in Verity’s house and watched her aunt fly about the place to pack a bag. There was no knowing in what state they would find Demelza. Dwight had written that she had gone to bed and was resting, but urged them to haste.

For her mother’s sake, she would hold back her bitterness and make herself feel only thoughts of love and sorrow.

When they finally reached Nampara, Dwight was still there, though most of the day must have passed since he sent for them. That worried Clowance even more than his letter had, and she had barely dismounted from Nero before she caught hold of his arm.

“Where is Mama?” she demanded. “And – how is she?”

“Asleep still,” he said, patting her hand. “I gave her a sedative. I’m afraid she was rather…frantic.” She was struck by how old he seemed, suddenly. Older than when she had last seen him. He had never had a robust constitution, grey before his time thanks to his stint in a prisoner of war camp, but today he looked _tired_. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added, moving to help Verity to dismount. Clowance pulled off her gloves and looked up at her parents’ bedroom, where the curtains were already drawn. “The letter came from Ross,” Dwight was saying. “It seems he’s safe, out of French hands – but there’s no knowing how long it will take him to return home.”

“I can stay indefinitely,” Verity assured him. “As long as Andrew remains well.” She had agreed that before they left Penryn. Andrew had sent them on their way without reserve, but had promised to send word if his heart trouble should flare up again, to ease Verity’s conscience. He had kissed Clowance’s hand when they were about to leave, and told her to give his deepest sympathies to her mother.

“Can I go up to her, Uncle Dwight?” Clowance asked, still looking up at the drawn curtains upstairs. “Or should I wait?” She wouldn’t go up if he said not, but she wanted - needed – to see Demelza. And Demelza would need her; Demelza would need all her family around her now. All the living members of her family.

“You may go, but be careful not to wake her.”

The house was unnaturally quiet. Not empty or without activity – Betsy Maria Martin was sweeping the hall, and as Clowance mounted the stairs she heard a raucous pair of hens in the farmyard – but subdued, as if a heavy blanket had been laid across the whole household. It wasn’t something Clowance could see so much as she could _feel_ it, a strange kind of lethargy that she had never known here before. It made her shiver. A breeze was making a window pane rattle somewhere. Jeremy’s room, she remembered. His window had always rattled like that. She came to a halt at the top of the stairs, clasped hold of the banister to keep herself upright, and swallowed against the tears that threatened to prick at her eyes.

Demelza wasn’t asleep when at last Clowance pushed open the bedroom door. She was in bed, curled up on her side, a pillow clasped in her arms as if she was hugging somebody close to her. Her cheeks were damp, her eyes starkly red in a pale, drawn face. When Clowance came into the bedroom, Demelza didn’t move at all, not even a lifting of her head to see who had come.

“Mama,” Clowance said softly. “Dwight said you were sleeping. Should I leave you?” Her mother didn’t answer, but after a few moments she shook her head. Clowance closed the bedroom door behind her and crossed to the bed. She hesitated, but then sat on the edge of the bed and covered one of Demelza’s hands with her own. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen Demelza so still, so utterly motionless. Her mother was usually so full of energy, hardly ever seeming to settle into one place for long. She was always up and about, tending her garden, supervising the kitchen or the farmyard, tending to little Henry or trotting off to Mellin or Sawle to help somebody or other. She had her megrims once a month, and had to rest in bed for half a day or so, but even then she was not _still_. Not quiet and still and tearful like this.

Once again tears welled in her own eyes, and this time Clowance couldn’t stop them. She felt them trickling down her cheeks and chin, warm and wet and unwelcome.

“Oh, Mama,” she whispered. “What – is there anything I can do?” Demelza shook her head again, but she didn’t spurn Clowance’s hand on hers, which felt important. Clowance moistened her lips and tried again. “I’ve come – with Verity. We’ll both stay.”

Now Demelza stirred a little. “Stephen?” she croaked.

“Away on the _Adolphus_ ,” Clowance said. “I’ve left him a note – he’ll come when he’s back.” Demelza nodded. A fresh tear traced a path down onto the pillow.

Clowance wished, illogically and futilely, that Jeremy was here. Jeremy always knew how to respond to their mother, whether she needed cheering or encouraging or teasing. He would know what to do now, unlike Clowance, who felt useless and stupid in the face of Demelza’s anguish. But Jeremy wasn’t here, would never be here again, and nor was her father, who was surely the person Demelza must want most. There was only Clowance, and she had to do her best. She had to do _something_ , because she couldn’t bear seeing her mother like this.

“Mama,” she said softly, “may I lie next to you?”

Demelza was quiet for so long that Clowance almost thought she hadn’t been heard. But then Demelza nodded, and pushed the pillow out of the way. Clowance unbuttoned her riding habit and boots, discarding them carelessly on the floor, and then she lay down beside her mother. Just like she had when she was a little girl and, when Papa was away, she and Jeremy had sometimes been allowed to creep into bed with their mama. They had slept in her arms, both giving and receiving comfort.

And that was what she was doing now: giving and receiving comfort. She put her arms around Demelza, as if they were two schoolgirls exchanging secrets in a dormitory bed, and let her tears join Demelza’s on the bedding beneath them.

* * *

_iv._ Ben Carter

“It can’t be true,” Ben said, aghast, staring at Rosina Carne, who clasped her hands together and looked her sympathy. Sam Carne’s wife had found him just as he was heading home from Wheal Leisure at the end of the day, just after the early evening core change. She’d wanted him to hear it from her, she’d said, and not from talk at the mine. All very well for the rest of the village, but not Ben. Not when Ben and Jeremy had grown up side by side, almost brothers in many ways.

“Sam had it from Nampara,” she said gently. “He and Drake have gone there now. I thought to walk over and tell ee, and your grandparents. Zacky did ought to know too. It’ll spread ‘round the villages quick enough, but…”

Ben cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of how close he was coming to losing his self-control. “T’was a kind thought,” he managed. “I – I can’t quite fathom it.”

“No. ‘Tis mighty sad news.”

Ben couldn’t find any words to say in response. He was reeling from the news she’d brought him. Jeremy, dead. It was beyond understanding. It was _impossible_. He turned and looked at the mine on the cliff, at the lights in the engine room. The sound of the engine, this close, was like the sound of the sea, a constant rhythm that settled into his bones. Jeremy’s engine. His design, his creation. Ben had gone with him so many times to Harvey’s workshops, less educated than Jeremy and less inclined towards the work, but interested enough to listen to Jeremy talk and help him, when he could, with his steam designs. The old engine that Jeremy had thought to repurpose as some sort of road conveyance…

And now that was all done. Jeremy had been away for months, of course, but this was different. Now he was dead. He had been Ben’s closest friend, and now he was dead.

Rosina seemed to sense some of his feelings, or perhaps he betrayed them with his expression. She offered him no words of comfort, but said: “He were a good man, our Jeremy. And I don’t think anyone’d mind if you was to step over to Nampara, in a few days, to know more about it, if ee’d like.”

“Aye,” Ben agreed hollowly. “Aye, I might do that.”

He stumbled away from Rosina, but didn’t turn his feet towards home. He wanted to walk for a while, to have some of the solitude that he had so little of these days, now he was Leisure’s mine captain. He had settled into the position, despite his early troubles over Clowance and Stephen Carrington, but he was still a solitary person, more comfortable with his own thoughts and the sounds of nature than in the loud, jocular camaraderie of the mine. And now, with this bitter news about Jeremy, he needed to be alone for a while. Going home would mean sharing the news with his mother and Whitehead Scoble, and he couldn’t do that. Not yet.

He walked for a while, along the familiar paths and tracks that he knew well. After a while he found himself on Hendrawna beach, where high tide was receding back across the sands away from the bluffs. It was dark by now, but the moon gave enough light for him to see the ripples formed in the sand by the waves. There was little flotsam left for anybody who might care to come picking. A few bits of seaweed that might be worth burning, a single branch that somebody would no doubt carry off before long. Nothing that Ben needed. He earned a good wage at the mine, enough to provide for himself and his family besides, if they ever needed it.

The mine. The engine. Jeremy. Ben’s heart was sore at the thought of it all. Not that death was a stranger to him, but it hadn’t struck so close before, not since his father had died – though he remembered little enough of Jim Carter. Not like Jeremy, who had been in his life for two decades.

And beyond his own pain was the knowledge of what it would mean to the Poldarks. Clowance was out of his reach – perhaps always had been – but he cared for her still, and he knew how close she had been to her brother. Captain Poldark was still abroad, still held captive by the French, unless there was any news to the contrary…Ben knew he had not always understood Jeremy’s interest in steam, but over the last few years they had developed a new warmth between them.

As for Mrs Poldark – Ben could imagine how this had hit her. She was such a motherly person, so warm and affectionate to her children, so devoted to them. He knew how she would be feeling.

After a while he climbed up the beach onto the headland of Nampara’s Long Field. From here it was only a short walk along the edge of the field to the farmhouse. He didn’t intend to, not consciously, but he found himself taking that walk, down the cliff to the scrubby bit of land that to the right led to Nampara Cove, and to the left led to the house. Here he paused, one foot on the stile, knowing he had no right to intrude but wishing that he did.

Somebody moved beyond the stile, in Mrs Poldark’s garden. “Is someone there?” a familiar voice asked. Ben cursed himself and climbed over the stile as he answered.

“Aye, it’s me. Ben Carter.”

“Oh, Ben.” Clowance stepped a little closer, and the moon was bright enough to show the dampness of her cheeks. “You’ve – you’ve heard, then.” She sniffed, and wiped at her eyes with the back of a hand. “I came at once,” she said, her voice choked. “With my aunt Verity, and…and Dwight is still here. Mama is…”

“Aye,” he said again. There were no words adequate to convey his grief and his sympathy, so he didn’t attempt them. “I didn’t mean to come,” he added, “I just…sort of found myself here. I’ll leave ee be.”

“No, wait –,” She reached out, but stopped short of actually touching him. “I stepped out for some air,” she told him, “but I – I don’t want to be alone.”

“Is Stephen not –,”

“He’s away.” She wiped her face again. “There are so many people inside. And Mama is…” She trailed off, and then the words seemed to burst out of her. “She’s – she’s so _quiet_ , Ben. She’s just…sitting there, and Dwight doesn’t want to give her another sedative tonight, but she won’t rest, she’s just holding Henry and she won’t speak, and it’s –,” She checked herself. Ben cleared his throat, feeling awkward in sharing these confidences with her. At last Clowance spoke again. “I wish Papa were here,” she said in a low voice. “He would know what to do.”

“Clowance?”

It was Mrs Poldark herself, standing in the doorway of the house, silhouetted by the lamplight inside. She was far enough away that Ben thought she probably wouldn’t see them, and he thought he ought to slink away unnoticed. But Clowance took an audibly shaky breath, and he knew he couldn’t leave her. It wasn’t his place, but he couldn’t leave if she needed him.

“Here, Mama,” she called out. “I just needed some air.” There were figures behind Mrs Poldark, indistinct with the light behind them. Somebody put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged them off and stepped out into the dark of the garden. “I’ll be inside soon,” Clowance added. “You needn’t come out.”

“I need you,” said Mrs Poldark. Her voice was hoarse, and as she crossed the garden towards Clowance, the moonlight revealed a face so pale it was ghostly, even to Ben’s non-superstitious eye. “Who’s there?” she asked, looking in his direction. He fumbled off his hat, and after a moment her eyes seemed to adjust enough to the darkness that she could recognise him. “Ben,” she murmured. “Ben. Of course.”

“I don’t mean to intrude, ma’am,” Ben said. She gazed at him with dark eyes but said nothing further. She looked fragile, somehow. Like a stiff wind would blow her over. Not at all like herself. “I – I’ll come back another day, mebbe. I don’t want to intrude.” She didn’t react to that, but kept looking at him in a blank, disconcerting manner. He had to say something; there was no justification for his presence here tonight, but he had to say _something_. “I’m so grieved,” he managed. “So grieved.”

That seemed to get through to her; she lifted a hand to her breast, pressed it over her heart as if she had some physical ache. “Yes,” she said distantly. “Grieved. I – am grieved.”

“Come inside, Mama,” Clowance insisted, stepping close to Mrs Poldark and putting her arm around her mother’s waist. “You’re so tired…I _wish_ you would eat something.”

Mrs Poldark shook her head but didn’t shake off her daughter. “No,” she murmured. “Ben…”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“’Tis kind of you to come,” she said to him. “Jeremy…Jeremy thought so highly of you, Ben…” Silently, gracefully, tears began to spill out from her eyes and down her cheeks, apparently unheeded. She almost swayed on her feet; Clowance’s arm was perhaps all that kept her steady. It hurt Ben all over again, seeing her in such a state, knowing that there was no way for anyone to comfort her.

Somebody came out from the house. It was Drake Carne, who nodded in recognition at Ben but focused on his sister.

“Come inside, sister,” he said to her. “We’ve a posset for ee. Will ee not try and drink a bit, for me? ‘Twill warm you up proper.” She shrugged her shoulders listlessly, but she let Drake and Clowance guide her back towards the house. None of them looked back at Ben, which was just as well, for he had at last lost his composure, and was weeping bitter tears.

* * *

_v._ Verity

It was past midnight, and Verity was feeling every one of her years. It had been a long day, longer than she had anticipated when she woke up this morning. The ride to Nampara was one Verity had done many times, but she wasn’t getting any younger, and though her mare had been placid, the roads of rural Cornwall were still rough, and she’d felt every rut and furrow as they’d jolted across the county.

Not that she minded, of course. She could not have done anything different. When Clowance had appeared at her home in such a state, there had been no question of allowing her to ride across by herself, and no question that Verity would not go straight to Demelza’s side. If Ross had been at home she might have thought differently – though a close relation, she wouldn’t dream of intruding on the family group at such a time. But Ross was a captive in France, and Verity would not, _could not_ , leave Demelza without all her friends at such a time.

Clowance had worried her, on the ride from Penryn. She had been so silent, so pale and subdued, that Verity had half-worried that she would not have the fortitude for the journey. And then that outburst, blaming Jeremy’s new wife Cuby for his death…Verity could understand the need to cast about for some reason _why_ , when one’s beloved brother was taken too soon. Her faith had sustained her, when Francis had died; her faith and the staunch support of her husband. But Clowance lacked the former in any real measure, and the latter…

Well, Stephen was away on business at present. No doubt when he returned, they would help each other. But Verity felt it possible that Stephen too would cast about for somebody or something to blame for Jeremy’s death. That would do neither of them any good. Not that it was any of her business, really, except that Clowance was Ross and Demelza’s daughter and Verity cared greatly for her.

Verity passed a hand across her eyes wearily. She had made Clowance go to bed, and Mrs Gimlett too, insisting that she should be the one to sit with Demelza in case she should need anything. John Gimlett had brought up Demelza’s rocking chair to the master bedroom, and Verity had made herself comfortable in it, while Demelza lay in bed and, after some time, seemed to sleep. In the end Dwight had given her another, weaker dose of sedative, because it had been evident to everyone that she wouldn’t rest without it. But Demelza had resisted sleep for some time, and Verity had brought her more than one dry handkerchief before at last the drugs had overtaken her.

Verity’s heart ached for her. Jeremy had been such a consolation to Demelza, after Julia’s death and the legal and financial troubles she and Ross had been through. To die now, after outgrowing his childhood frailty…to die in fighting that wicked Frenchman…at least Napoleon was done for, now. And Ross was free. Those were consolations, at least, for those a degree removed from Jeremy. For Demelza, of course, they would count for little or nothing. She had lost her son. The grief, for her, was too all-consuming.

At least Demelza was managing to sleep. She lay silent and still on the bed, head facing the window so that Verity could quite clearly see that her eyes were shut. She had aged years since Verity had last seen her. She had been quite shocked at the state of her cousin, when Demelza had come downstairs this evening. It wasn’t so much her appearance – she had always been pale, so that whenever she wept, her eyes seemed redder and her skin whiter in comparison – but her demeanour. She had moved so slowly, so aimlessly, her hands often fluttering in search of something and then coming to rest again, empty, in her lap. She’d shunned food and drink, seeming to want only to hold Henry and to have Clowance close to her. Drake had managed to coax her to take something, in the end, but it had been obvious that every mouthful was a chore.

If Ross were here, Verity reflected sadly, he would hardly have recognised her.

The house was quiet and still. The current housecat, a pampered young tabby, came to settle in her lap, providing a comforting, weighty warmth. Strictly speaking, it shouldn’t have been in the bedroom – Verity knew Ross had always hated animals upstairs – but she didn’t care enough to dislodge it. There was, for the time being, some peace, and eventually Verity dozed off, still rocking idly in the chair. She was comfortable, and her light slumber might have turned into true sleep before long, but after a while something disturbed the cat, who leaped from Verity’s lap with a startled miaow, pulling her back into alertness. When she looked at the bed, she saw Demelza sitting upright, arms hugging her bent knees to her chest. Her face was yellow in the light of the single remaining candle, but she didn’t seem to be crying again, which was a relief.

“My dear,” Verity said softly. “I hoped you’d sleep through.”

Demelza shook her head slowly. “I can’t,” she said. “I…hurt…too much.”

“Oh, my dear.” Verity rose – not without some difficulty, for she’d stiffened up, sitting so long in the chair after the day’s exertions – and crossed to sit on the edge of the bed. She covered Demelza’s cold hand with her own. “Can I do anything?”

Once again, Demelza shook her head. “No,” she muttered. “No…there’s nothing anyone can do…” She bent her head, resting her forehead on her knees. “I wish Ross was here,” she admitted, hardly loud enough to be heard. There was nothing Verity could say in response; Demelza was only speaking out loud the wish that every one of her family must have felt at some point or another, today. But Demelza didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer. “I should never want him to be other than he is, but I wish…”

Verity petted her hand, and then began to stroke Demelza’s hair, a soothing motion, as if Demelza were a child. “I know, dear,” she murmured. “You need him. And we’re poor alternatives.” Demelza shook her head minutely, but the denial was a polite uselessness. Verity didn’t mind being less able to support Demelza than Ross, her loving and devoted husband; she was only sorry that she could not do more in Ross’s absence. “At least,” Verity said, faltering a little, because she wasn’t sure whether her words would bring any comfort or not, “at least he was…with Jeremy. At the end.”

Demelza made a small, pained sound – not quite a sob, but nearly. Verity considered her, still stroking her hair, offering her what small comfort she could.

“He was not alone,” she ventured at last, when it seemed Demelza would not, or could not, speak. “I’m glad of that, at least. That he was with his father, and he was loved.”

“He was loved,” Demelza said in a choked voice. “My precious boy…” Her shoulders began to shake. Verity wished she hadn’t spoken, but she couldn’t take the words back. She kept stroking Demelza’s hair, but after a while she got up and went to the drawer where she knew Demelza kept handkerchiefs.

“Here,” she said. “Dry your eyes, dear. You must try to sleep a little more. The morning will be here before long, and you’ve hardly rested.”

“I can’t seem to stop crying,” Demelza admitted, quietly, almost as if she felt it was shameful of her. “All day…” She took the handkerchief, wiped half-heartedly at her face. She looked so pale and weary that Verity gave in to impulse, sat back down on the bed, and wrapped her arms around her. Demelza leaned into her, still weeping quietly, but seeming to draw some comfort from the embrace.

Verity rested her head against Demelza’s and listened to her breathing, wishing above all else that she could do more. Ever since Demelza had become Ross’s wife, Verity had found her a source of warmth and sympathy and love, a sturdy support through Verity’s own trials, and she hoped that Demelza had found the same in her. But in this, there was so little Verity could do. Jeremy was dead. That charming, bright young man, cut down in what should have been the happiest days of his life, full of joy and gaiety with his charming young wife…

And if the grief was hard for Verity, for Demelza, for whom Jeremy’s birth had been a balm in those painful months after losing Julia – Demelza, who would never suffer anyone to think she could ever choose a favourite among her children but who had had such a close bond with her eldest son – the pain must be unbearable. No wonder she could not stop weeping. Verity could not, would not, reproach her for it, and nor would anyone else.

Eventually Demelza lifted her head, and dried her face again. “You ought to go to bed,” she said. “You must be so tired…’tis such a long journey for you...”

It was so like Demelza, even in the midst of her pain, to be concerned for others. It was a small thing, but it was a relief to see some flicker of her normal self amid the anguish.

“I’m quite comfortable in the chair, my dear,” Verity told her, gently but firmly. “Now, do you think you can sleep? Do you need a glass of water?”

“No, no. I need nothing.” Demelza turned and fidgeted with her pillow, trying to plump it a little. Verity watched her for a moment, and then rose and did the job for her. Demelza lay down, and Verity pulled up the blankets, feeling once again very motherly towards her cousin. She tucked the blankets in and pressed a kiss to Demelza’s forehead.

“Sleep, then, if you can,” she instructed. “I’ll be here all night.”

“Thank you.” Demelza turned her head and watched as Verity went back to the rocking chair. Verity felt colder now than she had earlier, and was glad of the thick blanket that Clowance had set ready for her. She settled it across her knees and tucked her hands underneath the edge of it in her lap. For a minute or so there was quiet, as they each settled once more into comfortable positions. Then Demelza spoke once more.

“I birthed Jeremy in this bed,” she whispered into the dark bedroom. “Twenty-five years ago.”

She said nothing else. Verity closed her eyes against tears and prayed for Demelza to have the strength to survive this.

* * *

_vi._ Ross

_Ross said: ‘I am worried about Demelza.’  
‘Yes,’ said Dwight, then nodded his head. ‘Yes.’  
‘She is physically well, so far as you know?’  
‘She has made no complaints. Of course the shock is still affecting her.’  
‘Yet not in some ways quite as I would have expected. I am happy if it is sincere but – well, she is so full of interest in all the affairs of Nampara – just as if nothing had happened.’  
‘Is that how she seems to you? It is not as she has been before you came. She cared for nothing. Often she would not talk even to her family. She spoke to Caroline, but very little. Most times she would just sit there.’  
‘You think, then, this show of liveliness has been put on for my benefit?’  
‘She’s a very strong personality, Ross. She may feel that she has to be supportive of you.’  
‘If it is put on, one wonders how long it will endure – and can only guess at what it is hiding.’  
_ _...  
_ _‘_ _It is difficult to tell her anything about what happened,’ Ross said. ‘She heads me off, turns the point, brings up some other subject. Well, perhaps that is natural. One cannot go on probing at a wound – or should not, I imagine. Last night . . .’_  
He stopped. Dwight said nothing, staring at a squirrel swarming up the branch of a tree.  
‘Last night,’ Ross said, ‘she would hardly let me touch her. We lay beside each other in bed, just holding hands. When I woke early this morning just as it was coming light she was gone, standing by the window looking out. When she heard me move she came back, slipped into bed, took my hand again.’ 

‘The Twisted Sword’, Winston Graham.


End file.
